


The Great Sandwich Manoeuvre

by Siria



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:21:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm registering a protest," Danny says, leaning back against the kitchen counter and folding his arms. "Right now, against you. In triplicate."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Great Sandwich Manoeuvre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dogeared](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogeared/gifts).



> For Dogeared, on her birthday. With thanks to Sheafrotherdon for betaing.

"I'm registering a protest," Danny says, leaning back against the kitchen counter and folding his arms. "Right now, against you. In triplicate."

Steve makes a show of looking around them—at the scrubbed counter-top, the coffee maker, the bowl of fruit; at the home which, despite all their best efforts to the contrary, somehow manages to remain well-ordered. "Don't see much paperwork around here, Danny."

"Metaphorical," Danny says. "I'm filing metaphorical paperwork against you to any deity who cares to listen, okay." Even though he's got his arms folded, he still moves his shoulders around as he speaks, as if in muted punctuation; it makes the worn-soft red cotton of his t-shirt stretch pleasingly over his shoulders. "To wit, how Steven J. McGarrett, against all the laws of nature, decided that instead of spending his weekend in a profitable manner—I'm talking naps, beers, a hand job or two considered reasonable-to-good by all concerned—he was going to engage in the most ridiculous kind of one-upmanship imaginable."

"No, I'm not," Steve says, squinting at his handiwork. It looks like he's achieved an even distribution of mustard, but he wants to be certain before he risks going in. He adds another generous dollop of the stuff, smoothes it out with a careful hand.

Danny sighs, and scrubs a hand through his hair, which is still mussed into damp curls from their earlier interlude in the shower. "Yes, right, what am I saying, the qualifier _most_ should probably be removed from the ridiculous here, because this is you, babe, you engage in six ridiculous things before breakfast and half of them involve hand grenades, but this? Seriously?"

"You said," Steve points out, waggling the knife at him, "and I quote, that 'savouring a well-made sandwich is a key part of a successful weekend.' This is the weekend. I'm making you a sandwich. I fail to see a reason for anger here."

"Okay," Danny says, "first off, please stop memorising stuff I say, it's a little off-putting when you do that. Second, _that_ is to sandwiches like Donald Trump's coif is to actual hair. It's a parody of sandwiches. It's a caricature of itself. You put that next to a real sandwich, it would make a grown man weep."

Steve frowns, lowers the last slice of bread into position on top of the sandwich, and takes half a step back to consider if its engineering is strong enough to allow him to slice it into thirds or just halves. Maybe just halves. "Don't mock the sandwich, Danny."

"I'm not _mocking_ the sandwich," Danny says. "I fear it. You know why?"

Steve doesn't bother answering. When Danny's on a roll like this, all questions are rhetorical.

"Because," Danny continues, hands flying, "because this sandwich is an excellent representation of how I'm living with someone who doesn't know the meaning of moderation. And do not, _do not_ , decide to reel off the Merriam-Webster definition of the word to me, Steven, because I will not find that amusing. You do not know what the word means, I have decided to _share my life_ with someone who defies the phrase 'common sense' because there is no one else who, on hearing their partner say, 'you know, a sandwich would be good right now', would try to recreate the Leaning Tower of Pisa in food form."

"The sandwich is only about six inches tall," Steve points out.

"I have observed the progress of this sandwich," Danny says, "and in there you've got your sliced turkey, bacon, roast beef, and capicola; your lettuce and tomato, guacamole, mayo, mustard, caramelised onions, alfalfa sprouts, bell peppers in a variety of colours—"

"Don't forget the cheese," Steve supplies helpfully.

"Oh," Danny says, "Oh, you mean the three different kinds of cheese? That cheese? No, no, trust me when I say that I've been watching with a beady eye, here, all the things you're putting into that bread roll, you and your competitive sandwich construction."

"All your favourites," Steve says, selecting one of his preferred knives for the slicing process. He's going to need a good angle to ensure a clean cut—he's glad he re-sharpened all his knives only a few days ago.

"Yes," Danny says, "yes, yes, I'm aware that this sandwich is some sort of weird declaration on your part, some kind of McGarrettish attempt to profess through food all those things that you can't"—his right hand flaps open and closed—"quite make yourself say using your human words. Daniel would like a sandwich, you said to yourself, so I will just have to make him the best sandwich the world has ever seen. I will happily avoid this thing called logic, and make him a sandwich so big it'll need three strong men and a _crane_ to lift it, because that's guaranteed to be so much better than just a regular grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of milk."

Steve’s far from being fooled by Danny’s bluster; he long ago learned to read the undercurrent of affection and amusement that lies beneath it, to translate the overflow of Danny’s big heart. He grins to himself, gets two plates out of the cupboard, puts half the sandwich and a napkin onto each. The filleted remains of the Sunday newspaper and Danny's paperwork get pushed to one side and Steve sets the plates onto the kitchen table, next to the two glasses of ice water that are already dripping condensation onto the wood. "So you're telling me you _don't_ want the sandwich?"

"What," Danny says, dragging out a stool and sitting down, "are you kidding me, of course I _want_ the sandwich, don't be ridiculous, I’m starving, you've had me up since the crack of dawn doing _yoga_ —"

"Hmm," Steve says, taking his own seat. "You know, you need to do some work on keeping your shoulders wide and relaxed when you're in downward dog, because—"

"Hush," Danny says, scowling at Steve in mock irritation, "I'm eating here and this is going to be epic, I do not need another one of your long discursive things about the joys of mindful breathing and how you learned this pose that lets you put your leg behind your head in Nepal—"

"Bhutan," Steve corrects him. From Nepal he brought back the hat with the ear flaps, the one Gracie thinks is the best thing ever; from Bhutan, though, he’d just about escaped with the shirt on his back.

"The side of a mountain _somewhere_ ," Danny continues, waving a dismissive hand, "which, regardless, because of you my thighs are killing me, and I'm willing to accept this veritable mound of carbohydrates as an apology, even if it is a scarily over the top one."

Steve smirks a little at the mention of Danny's thighs.

"The wind changes, your face will stick like that," Danny says around his first mouthful of sandwich. His head bobs from side to side as he chews, his expression one of deep consideration like the sandwich connoisseur that he is. It is, Steve thinks, a pretty appreciative expression.

"You like my face," Steve says before he takes a bite of his own sandwich. He's pleased to find that he did indeed get the mustard ratio just right.

"I do," Danny admits, "God help me, I do. I will admit that your face is pleasingly symmetrical to look at and you do at least have a sound intuition for the proper construction of sandwiches."

"Thank you," Steve says, with what he thinks is an appropriate degree of magnanimity.

"You're welcome," Danny says, as if he's just made some huge concession, but his tone is belied by the way his bare foot is pressed up against Steve's under the table, his toes five points of warmth against Steve's instep.

Steve presses back just a little, just enough to make a faint flush creep along the high points of Danny's cheekbones. "So this meets your Sunday Sandwich requirements?" he asks, and takes another bite. The bacon is really pretty good.

Danny squints at him. "Is this another attempt at the obtuse point making? Because if so, my friend"—he gestures at Steve with the end of his sandwich; little bits of lettuce fall out—"it's just a little bit more obvious than you think it is, and also I don't even know how we got to having a sandwich be a metaphor for our whole thing."

"Thing?"

"I do not try to quantify the unquantifiable, Steven. But if you want me to be more _concise_ ," Danny says, spitting out the word as if it's some kind of curse, as if the mere thought of brevity is anathema to the Williams' soul, "then yeah, it gets my approval, this is a good Sunday lunchtime sandwich."

"Okay," Steve says. He chews some more.

Danny peers at him, fine lines crinkling around his eyes as he smiles, like he’s seen where Steve is going with this and is willing to coax him along. "And?"

"Nothing," Steve says lightly. "Just wanted to make sure your Sunday is acceptable."

Danny drops his sandwich on the plate, grinning and shaking his head. "Naval intelligence? They really had you working in naval intelligence? Because babe, I swear, this is the most transparent way of making a declaration of affection since, well…”

“Kāne’ohe?” Steve suggests. That had been the first time—the two of them breathless and bruised and high on adrenaline in the middle of the Botanical Gardens, Steve cupping Danny’s face in his palms and kissing him over and over until the shaking in his hands stopped.

“I was going to go with the time you paraded through the Five-0 sans pants,” Danny says, “but that memory also has its charms.”

Steve beams at him.

"Love you too, you big lug," Danny says and then snaps his fingers. "Come on, you and me, let's go."

"I haven't finished my sandwich," Steve points out.

"That," Danny says with an air of long-suffering patience, "is because your sandwich weighs at least four pounds. Put it down, come on. You want to make elaborate declarations via bread, that's your prerogative, but I generally need a mattress involved in mine."

Steve trails up the stairs behind Danny. "Such a romantic," he mumbles, ducking his head to hide the smile that’s spread uncontrollably across his face—wide enough to make his cheeks hurt, to make Danny call him a goof if he caught sight of it.

"I'm glad you appreciate it," Danny says, stripping off his t-shirt and kicking off his sweats, which are worn so thin as to be almost disreputable. Steve takes a moment to admire the flex and shift of Danny’s back. "Come on, onto the bed—the extreme sandwich portion of the day was great, but I don't think we should underestimate the importance of the nap."

"Important, huh?” Steve says wryly as he tugs off his own clothes, folding tank top and shorts and stowing them away on the top of the dresser. Danny rolls his eyes at that—his own clothes are scattered on the floor—but there are some habits that Steve can't make himself break. Others, of course, are more fun to disregard, which is why he finds himself flopping down on his bed beside Danny at one thirty on a Sunday afternoon, heedless of the dishes in the sinks that need washing, the water glasses leaving rings on the kitchen table, the paperwork back at the Five-0 that needs processing.

"Vital. I think we've been neglecting your education in such matters," Danny says, "I'm very irritated with myself at this oversight, you have no idea. Come on, budge over, there's no need for you to take up the whole bed just because you overdosed on human growth hormone as a teenager." Despite his words, Danny's moving closer to Steve, wrapping his arms around him, arranging the pillow that both their heads rest on. The smile on his face is so bright that Steve finds he can’t quite look at it directly—focuses instead on the stubble on Danny’s cheek, the blue of his eyes, the sprinkle of freckles on his temple. Their bellies press together, and the rasp of leg hair against Steve's own is an odd sort of pleasure, a static thrill that makes Steve smile.

Steve shifts a little nearer to Danny, presses a kiss to the creases emotion has traced onto Danny's brow. "I'm willing to learn."

"Hmpfh," Danny says against Steve's collarbone, eyes already closed. He's got one hand anchored on Steve's hipbone; his hair tickles Steve's chin. "Well, you and me, we're not such a lost cause, just in case you haven't noticed. Now please, babe, sleep. Consider it a strategic decision on your part."

"Okay," Steve says, and smiles as he drifts off, one hand smoothing big arcs, over and over, on Danny's back. Mission accomplished.


End file.
